


Yes, Ser

by ElvenSemi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, Boss/Employee Relationship, Capitalist Dystopia, Eventual Smut, F/M, Illustrated, Illustrations, POV Second Person, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenSemi/pseuds/ElvenSemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a modern Thedas, the story of one elf’s mad scramble to survive in the big city. An illustrated story, written by ElvenSemi, art by amaryllislavellan, bankrolled by teklacat. </p>
<p>Updates the first Wednesday of every month. A modern AU companion piece to Keeping Secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tekla_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tekla_cat/gifts).



> Here we go! This fic will update once a month on the first Wednesday of each month. Thanks to Teklacat for bankrolling it and the ever-talented Amaryllislavellan for her marvelous artwork. <3 
> 
> This fic is more an AU of Keeping Secrets than an AU of DAI directly--there will be guest appearances by a goodly number of characters from that story. It's by no means required reading, but I think fans of my other work will enjoy it the most.

It’s a Friday. You hate Fridays.

Admittedly, not so much as you hate Mondays, but whereas Mondays always signal a start to the grinding routine of the weekday, Fridays are the start to your ever-chaotic weekends. You normally have just enough time to get home, get changed, and grab a nap before you’re off to your next job. That’s _normally_... That’s when you haven’t been asked to stay late.

“Not heading home yet?” comes Thea’s good-natured voice. She’s normally the last one to leave, but tonight, it looks like that’s going to be you.

“Gotta finish these reports,” you grumble. “Do _you_ want to see what Mr. Solas will do to me if they’re not filed before I leave here?”

“You could just come in tomorrow and finish them. I’m going to be here anyway,” she offers. “I could let you in.”

You shake your head. “Thanks, Thea, but I have plans, tomorrow. I’ll only be another half-hour.”

“Alright. Remember to turn the lights off,” she reminds you, and then all you hear is the door slide shut behind her.

To be utterly fair, you hadn’t been _asked_ to stay late, which is why you’re technically off the clock right now. No, you’d just fucked up. You hadn’t been paying attention to your surroundings, and you’d mouthed off to the wrong person.

In your defense, you hadn’t expected Mr. Solas, the goddamn _Vice President_ of INQCO, to drop forms directly onto your desk. You had grown used to seeing his secretary, Celia, sure, but never the man himself. And you certainly hadn’t expected him to drop the _wrong_ forms on your desk.

Admittedly, you could have said something other than “I can’t do shit with this, fix it.”

But it was Friday, and you’d had a very long week.

When the room had hushed, when you’d looked up and seen a man in a business suit that probably cost more than you made in a year… Somehow, you’d seen your life flash before your eyes instead of just your career. As hard as you’d worked to get this job, they were practically the same thing. You’d held eye contact with one of the most well-known elves in the business side of Orlais for about five seconds. He’d looked more surprised than angry, which might well be why you still have your job now.

“Right you are Miss… Emma,” he’d said, glancing at the plaque on your desk. _He knew your name now, fuck._ “Since you’re so familiar, I’m sure you’ll have no problem filling those out for me.”

You weren’t going to tell him no.

You found out from Thea, later that day, that Celia had been fired, or let go, or she’d quit, or whatever they were calling it. She couldn’t cut it. You also learned that she was the fifth one of Mr. Solas’ assistants to quit—this year.

It’s only Solace 24th.

So, in short, you’d accidentally pissed off a very powerful man—your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss, perhaps—who was well known and well feared in the company for his sharp tongue and lack of patience for mistakes.

If he told you to fill out the damn forms for him, you’d fill out the damn forms in triplicate. You’d rather do a few hours’ unpaid labor now and keep your job. You need it; Val Royeaux is not a cheap place to live. It had taken you a lot of doing to find a place outside of Alienage that would rent to an elf with no cosigners. It’s just a tight little studio, and you’re pretty sure the landlord is charging you more than she’s charging the humans who live in the same complex. But it’s yours, and it’s on a good side of town, and it means you don’t have to commute out of Alienage every single day.

You work a job so you can afford an apartment that makes it easier to work that job… Ugh. The irony isn’t lost on you.

By the time you finish all the forms and get them on the right desk, it’s clear you won’t even be able to stop by your apartment—you have to go straight to your next job. You’ll be cutting it close as it is. But what’s a few hours of sleep?

-

Saturday morning, and you’re almost falling asleep on your feet. Literally—twice now you’ve leaned onto Belassan while he was working the espresso machine.

“Shouldn’t you just take a nap in the break room?” he suggests after the third time you slump onto him in a half-unconscious daze.

“I did,” you mutter sleepily. “Got a solid two hours in there before my shift.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, the sound carrying a world of meaning. “And your plans for the day, dare I ask?”

“Got a gig at the university. Stand in one place for two hours, get some quick money.”

“Nude again?”

“Sera _promised_ this one wasn’t,” you say with a sigh. “But it’s the University of Orlais, and I’ve got these.” You tap the edge of your ear. “So either I’ll be nude or they’ll put me in some ridiculous get-up. Whatever. They want to give me forty silver to humiliate myself for two hours, I will.”

“After that, are you getting some sleep?”

“After that I’ve got a doctor’s appointment. Since I’ll be in the area, I’m stopping by the hospital. _Then,_ yes, father dearest, I’ll go home and get some sleep,” you say teasingly. “I swear, you’re worse than-- _ow, fuck!_ ”

You snatch your hand out of the stream of boiling hot coffee. “ _Figlio di puttana! Fesso, fesso, fesso…_ ”

“Put it under cold water,” Belassan instructs as you rock back onto the heels of your feet, hissing.

“I’m _fine_. Ah, fuck, fuck—“

“Cold water!”

“Fine! Owowowow—“ You leave a trail of curses in your wake as you head to the back to put your burnt hand under a flow of water from the sink. Ugh. Perfect, injured fingers. Thank the Maker you’re not waitressing tonight.

-

Sunday is the day of rest, you remind yourself, sometime around hour seven of what’s turned into an eight-hour shift at Andaran A’Tea’Shan. Belassan couldn’t make it into work; some sort of emergency at the ranch. He’ll probably be cross with Enansal when he finds out _you’re_ the one who covered his shift, against logic. Who else could they have gotten? And you’re only covering the first half, anyway. You’re getting dangerously close to forty hours a week as it is, and they can’t afford to pay you overtime. Not that you’d report them if they didn’t; you’d be happy just for the chance to pick up extra hours at a place you actually _like_ working.

But Aldric has morals. And, more specifically, smarts. There are people who would _love_ to shut down an elven business in this part of town, and breaking labor laws would give them a perfect excuse.

Of course, all that logical stuff is cold comfort when you’re working _five_ different “part-time” or “self-employed” jobs, none of which offer any sort of benefits.

By the time you stumble home to your apartment, you’re almost dead on your feet. You trip on the stairs twice, drop your keys just trying to unlock the door, and nearly drop your backpack on your Seheron Violets. You squint at them through bleary eyes—when had you last watered them? Eh… they’re not looking so good, so it’s probably been a while. You stumble the few feet to the sink, fill a bowl with water, and take a few minutes to water your plants. In your stupor, you barely remember that it’s generally not important to water your cactus.

Your apartment is a tiny little thing, not even five hundred square feet and packed to the brim with furniture from the last age. The newest thing you own is probably the television, and that’s just because Sera was getting a new one and thought your place was boring. You never use it. You don’t even have cable.

You strip out of your clothes and throw them haphazardly into the “kitchen” area. You’ve got a tiny little washing machine in there; once the pile becomes large enough to be considered a hazard, you’ll do a load. Then you collapse onto the bed. You’ve barely enough energy to pull the sheets over you before you pass out.

-

You sleep through the afternoon until your alarm goes off at nine. You glare at it through one bloodshot eye—you’d been having a rather pleasant dream. You sit up and take a moment to compose yourself. What day is it? You flip your phone open and stare at the time and date until it makes sense. Sunday. Sunday night. You glance at your schedule, trying to figure out what you’re doing and where you’re going.

Andaran A’Tea’Shan. Right. Overnight. Then Monday. You mentally readjust yourself into thinking of today as “very early Monday” and stand to face the “day”. Eventually, your bizarre sleeping “schedule” will get the best of you... but not today.

You don’t bother with dinner/breakfast. There’s no point—you can eat for free at Andaran A’Tea’Shan in just a few hours. You just get dressed, double check your bag three times to make sure you’re not forgetting anything… You remember vaguely, something about watering your plants? Yeah, you probably need to do that. You water them quickly before leaving and heading down the stairs and out into the street. The trams aren’t running this late, but that’s why you’re the proud owner of a bike older than you. 

You actually enjoy your shifts baking goods overnight at the coffee shop. You’re the only one there. It’s quiet, it’s peaceful, and if you finish a bit early, you can clock out and catch an extra long nap in the break room. Enansal and Aldric might as well be spirits of charity, the way they look after you. They let you store your work clothes in a locker, sleep in the break room… It might as well be a second apartment. 

Unfortunately, today is Monday. 

You _hate_ Mondays. 

You manage to catch a quick 15 minute nap by finishing up your baking a bit early, but then you’re back on your feet and working a morning barista position until eight… then you’ve just enough time to run into the back room. You change from your street clothes and apron into your professional wardrobe, comb your fussy hair back into a bun, apply a fresh coat of deodorant, touch up your make-up, brush your teeth… It’s a whole thing. Once again, you’re infinitely grateful that you’re lucky enough to have a boss who lets you use their store this way. 

Then, looking like an entirely different person, you’re out the door. Time to face the music… but hopefully, the reports went through fine and you’ll slowly fade out of Mr. Solas’ memory. 

-

“I… don’t understand,” you say, baffled, looking at the manila folder in your hands. It’s chock full of information about your new promotion. “I didn’t apply for anything.” 

“Your application was tendered,” Ms. Montiliyet informs you. She’s the human resource manager; yet another person far above your pay grade. “Of course, the position is fully optional. Should you turn it down, your current position and pay will be the same.” 

Your application was tendered, the fuck does that even mean… You don’t say that, however. You flip nervously through the papers, instead. The position pays nearly double your current wages, and it’s _salaried_ , with benefits. Full time! All these presents, and it’s not even your naming day! 

But there’s the little matter of the job itself. 

“I’m not sure I’m fully qualified to be the executive assistant to someone as… illustrious… as Mr. Solas,” you say, trying not to sound as frightened as you feel at the very concept. You are, in fact, _certain_ that you’re not qualified. You technically do have experience in that sort of a position… but Aimeé was not the Vice President of the most rapidly growing business on the Belle Marché. 

“Mr. Solas seems to think you have the qualifications he’s looking for,” Ms. Montiliyet says, smiling that bright smile of hers. Looking at it, you feel like she practices it in the mirror. “It’s understood that there will be a period of acclimation. You have a full week to decide whether or not you’re interested in accepting the position.” 

-

“You didn’t even apply?” Thea says doubtfully. The two of you have taken to eating lunch together. She’s a busybody, but she’s good at her job, and you’re not one to turn away anyone trying to befriend you. “That’s weird…” 

“I was hoping you’d tell me it’s absolutely normal,” you say with a sigh, thumbing through the papers. “I don’t understand. I’ve only been working here for a few months. Isn’t it early for this sort of thing? And she said my application had been ‘tendered’. By who?” 

“That’s normally code for ‘the boss wanted you for the job specifically but we’re not allowed to do that,’” Thea informs you. “They open up the application online, so technically, anyone within the company can apply. Then they ‘tender’ your application and close it up. Voila, you’re the most qualified person who applied. Makes it look all pretty and neat on paper.” 

You nod along. “Alright, that makes sense… but why me? I’m sure I don’t have the qualifications…” 

“That Mr. Solas has gone through five secretaries in under a year. They’re probably out of qualified people who’ll take the job,” Thea says with a laugh. “Are you going to take it? He’ll probably drive you mad within the month.” 

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Ms. Josephine said I had a week. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I turned it down, though. It’s an eighty percent pay increase, Thea!” 

Thea whistles. “That’s not bad. I bet it comes with the good benefits, too.” 

“Considering I currently get _no_ benefits? Yeah. Yeah, they’re good. The health insurance alone…” You flip through the pages some more. 

“But if he just torments you into quitting in three months, it’s all a moot point,” Thea points out, and you nod glumly. 

“You’re not wrong… But… I think I might be used to more hostile work environments than most of his previous secretaries.” 

-

It only takes you until Tuesday to decide. That’s because on Tuesday, you went against your best sense and picked up an evening shift at the club. You always need more money; you almost always pick up extra shifts when they’re offered. But Tuesday? At a club? The tips aren’t worth it and the crowd is even more rancid and pathetic than usual. You work in an upscale location. What that means is you get leering shems in business suits who are no less foul mouthed and disgusting than average, but tip far better. Tonight, though, both the men and the tips are utterly disappointing. 

You get your ass pinched one too many times. And while you enjoy watching the bouncer--”the Iron Bull,” as he’s called at the club--kick the grabby prick to the curb, you’d much rather simply not have had your ass pinched to begin with. 

If you take that job, there’s a pretty small possibility you’ll get your ass pinched. Mr. Solas has a reputation for being many things, but a letch isn’t one of them. And with that extra money and those extra benefits… You can start paying off your debts. Actually paying them off, not just staving off interest. You’ll never have to work another fucking Tuesday shift here again. 

Wednesday morning, you inform Ms. Montiliyet that you’ll take the job. 

This is your last week as a lowly pencil pusher for INQCO. Starting on Monday, you’ll be a much higher pencil pusher for INQCO. Aaaah, upwards mobility! 

You spend the rest of the week clearing up loose ends and making sure all of your work is finished. You didn’t have a job that involved a lot of large projects, so it’s not that difficult. It becomes a known fact that you were offered another position, but you keep your lips tight on exactly what that position was--and to your surprise, so does Thea. You suspect she has good reason; she’s a notorious gossip otherwise. That’s one of the main benefits of being her friend, actually--you always get to be up in everyone else’s business. You don’t tend to spread rumors like Thea… but you admit that it’s a hobby of yours to collect them, sort of like a magpie with shiny objects. 

-

Monday morning. 

You dress in the best you’ve got. You really, really wish you could shower, but you have to go straight from Andaran A’Tea’Shan to INQCO. You just apply a goodly amount of deodorant and a light coating of perfume and hope that you don’t stink after a night spent slaving over ovens and a morning spent spilling coffee on yourself. 

You probably stink. 

As you’re covering the bags under your eyes with a fresh coat of make-up, your phone goes off. You reach for it absent-mindedly, but it shows no new messages. You frown, and then remember--you’d been given a work phone. 

It’s significantly fancier than your actual phone, which is a flip phone you’ve had since you were sixteen. You fumble with it slightly. You’d looked at it over the weekend when you’d had time, but honestly, you’ve still no clue what you’re doing with it. 

_New text message: F. H. Solas_

Oh, good, it came with your boss’ number pre-installed. Go figure. You manage to open the text message with minimum difficulty. 

It’s a coffee order. 

You make a face, but it’s actually no real inconvenience; you’re literally _at_ a coffee shop. They had given you a business credit card, as well; you can only imagine this is why. The store is still swamped, though, so you’ll make it yourself before you leave. 

It’s a complicated order, too, though you don’t quite realize it until you’re making it. More flavor than coffee. And… decaf? Honestly, what’s the point of even getting coffee if you’re getting decaf…? But you don’t question it. You’re sure the elite have a refined palate that a mere plebian like yourself cannot _hope_ to comprehend. 

It is perhaps too early into this job for you to be getting so sarcastic. Technically, you’ve not even started yet. 

-

You wander into what you’ve been told is your new workspace, fifteen minutes early and so nervous that you feel you might begin to shake. Ms. Montiliyet had given you a rather involved rundown of your expected responsibilities, and you had a list that came with the folder, but… You still aren’t quite sure what to expect. 

The layout of the office is interesting. Or perhaps ostentatious is the word. When you first enter, there’s a rather spacious area that feels slightly like a waiting room.That must be your desk, there, to the right… Yes, there’s a little plaque with your name on it and everything. 

The room has a few doors branching off of it. You proceed with some caution, worried that your boss might already be in despite the fact you’re early, and catch you stumbling into someplace you’re not supposed to go. Though nothing like that had been mentioned to you. Still, the sensation persists. First day jitters, no doubt. 

The first door reveals a bathroom, a rather nice one at that. The second reveals some sort of meeting room, with a long table and nice, squishy-looking chairs. The broad windows reveal a sweeping view of the Belle Marché. 

The last door… 

Is this supposed to be an office?! 

So this is how the upper class live and work! Maker’s breath. You feel a little irritated just looking at it. You suspect his office is bigger than your damn apartment--it’s certainly roomier. A large, mahogany desk is the obvious centerpiece. Another sits back and to the left at an angle--that one has a rather large computer monitor on it. The back wall is lined with bookshelves. What office needs a couch? Or a dining room table? Or so many plush chairs? You note that the windows are covered with double-layered curtains. Should they be left open or closed? You simply leave them the way they are, until you're told otherwise. 

You do remember one thing, though. Coffee on the desk… There’s a conveniently placed coaster, you can only imagine that’s where you’re supposed to put it. You’re a bit uncertain where to set his danish--you wind up simply placing it near the coaster. Hopefully you’ll get the swing of things quickly. A shame Celia quit, or was fired, or whatever. You could have used someone to show you the ropes. Ms. Montiliyet had tried, but you’ve no doubt there are a thousand tiny details she knows nothing about. 

Once you’ve finished glaring at Mr. Solas’ ridiculously posh office, you go to examine your own workspace. While it has nothing on his, it’s significantly nicer than the small, cramped desk you’d worked at previously. It’s so quiet here, as well… nothing like the constant, loud bustle of the office you’d been working in. You flick on the computer--a rather more expensive one than you’re used to--and examine the space. 

You get so involved setting things up and marking your territory, so to speak, that you barely notice when the door swings open. It’s the sound that catches your attention, a loud slam in an otherwise quiet office that jolts you. 

And there he is. 

You glumly think to yourself that his suit is likely worth more than the entire contents of your apartment. It's a gorgeous, tailored navy blue. You get a good chance to admire it when he pauses briefly in front of your desk; you try not to have the wide eyes of a halla about to be hit by a car. His eyes narrow briefly when he sees you; you can practically see the gears turning in his head. Maker, does he even remember hiring you? 

His eyes flit to the plaque on the desk, then back to you. 

“Ah,” he says, as if that’s answered a question. “I don’t particularly have time to train you. There are instructions in the middle drawer of your desk. Attempt to learn as you go. I will be in meetings for most of the day; an easy start for you.” He removes his gloves as he speaks to you, dropping them casually on your desk as if it’s his living room table. 

“Yes, s-” is all you manage before he turns and heads into his office. The door remains open, though you can’t see very far in from where you sit. You stare after him blankly for a moment, then scramble into your middle drawer. 

You had been expecting perhaps a page of instructions. It looks instead to be a small booklet; you’d mistaken it for an instruction manual when you’d first glanced through your drawers. It’s well worn. You pull it out and quickly begin thumbing through. The original text is typed, bullet list after bullet list of things you probably needed to know an hour ago. Every spare margin is filled with notes, written, scribbled out, in a dozen different hands. 

How many secretaries has this man gone through?! 

Before you have a chance to read more than the first sentence, however, the phone begins to ring. You swallow, hard--this is one of those things you have little experience with. You answer it after the second ring, though, unwilling to let it go any longer. 

“You’ve reached INQCO, Mr. Solas’ office,” you say, slightly panicked. Is that what you’re supposed to say?! No one told you! This stupid book probably says. Why weren’t you reading it before you arrived? Why hadn’t Ms. Montiliyet given it to you last week?! Fuck! 

“Ah, he’s…” you crane your neck and lean back in your chair to see Mr. Solas’ desk. He’s glaring at his cup of coffee. Oh dear. Is it possible to get fired on your first day for bringing your boss the wrong coffee? “...In a meeting, may I take a message?” 

You jot down the message as best you can. You’ll need to work on figuring out which parts of a message are important, but for now, you have a quick hand and legible shorthand. Hopefully this blasted book will have some--

The phone rings. 

Oh, Maker. 

By the time Solas leaves his office, perhaps two hours later, you’ve barely gotten through the first page of the book. At first, it seems, it was a typed list of instructions for the position. But parts have been marked out with correction written in, then corrections of the corrections, notes and exceptions and a dozen different rules, all in chaotic disorder on the page. It’s hard to decipher, and at times, contradictory. You need time to sit down and really absorb the information, but time is something you don’t have. The phone hasn’t really stopped ringing, and you’ve also been focusing on the timetable written in a planner in a neat, masculine hand--not a secretary, then... probably Mr. Solas himself. 

He’s heading out for his first meeting now. He has a lunch meeting as well--one less thing you have to worry about. In fact, you’ll have the office to yourself for a while; probably what he meant by an “easy start.” 

He pauses by your desk as he’s leaving, however. You’d managed to get far enough in the book to know you were to put his gloves on the table to the right hand side of his office door. Despite the fact he walks right by that table when he goes into his office, and it would be very easy for him to set them there instead of tossing them onto your desk and expecting you to take care of it. So he’s already pulled them on when he sets the coffee cup from Andaran A’Tea’Shan down on the very center of your desk, with the name of the shop, you note, facing you. 

“Whatever… _theme shops_... you go to in your spare time are your own business,” he says, voice firm and with a wall of cold iron behind it. “But in the future, you will bring my drinks from a more respectable establishment.” 

A wave of ice crashes over you, followed immediately by a core of burning loathing in your stomach. _Really?!_ You would have expected that sort of bullshit from a _human_ businessman, maybe, but you’d thought… 

Well. 

Clearly you were wrong. 

You bite your tongue briefly, fighting to keep your face neutral. “Of course, ser. My apologies,” you say finally. “It won’t happen again.” 

“Good,” he says, and he’s out the door, cup from Andaran A’Tea’Shan still on your desk. 

You glare at it for a few minutes after he’s left. 

That… stupid, high and mighty son of a--

Only the phone ringing snaps you out of your hypnotic fury. With a snap of your wrist, you toss the cup into the wastebin. You take a deep breath and then answer the phone. 

“You’ve reached INQCO, Mr. Solas’ office. Mr. Solas is out at the moment, may I take a message?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click through the images for full resolution. <3 I didn't want to stretch the page.

You’re a little worried that Mr. Solas considers this to be an “easy start.” You don’t particularly think he’s having you on about that; he’s no reason to lie. But your day is anything but easy. The calls don’t really slow down until around lunchtime, and rather than take your break as scheduled, you take advantage of the momentary lull to catch up on reading the instructions and organizing your messy “messages” for Mr. Solas, which you’ve been taking all day and have only a vague idea of how to present. 

From what Ms. Montiliyet said, you’re supposed to organize them “by priority,” but she hadn’t really explained how you were supposed to know what was most important. 

You wonder if this position is disorganized because people keep quitting, or people keep quitting because the position is disorganized. You suppose it could be a cycle. But you're determined to be where the buck stops for both. You need this job. You need this pay. You need these benefits. You don’t care if it means not sleeping for the next _month._ You have to make this work. 

There’s no getting around it; you’ll need time to decipher The Guide, as you’ve already begun to call it in your head. Sometimes the information is contradictory. You need to figure out the order in which the notes were written to determine what the newest instructions are. For now, all you can pick up is a bit more of the “how” on some of the duties Ms. Montiliyet already informed you of. For example, that coaster you put his coffee on is _heated_ , and you’re supposed to turn it _on._

Oops. 

You’re also in charge of making sure he gets lunch. One of the scribbled hands--a thin, loopy script that seems to almost always be in green ink--also notes to make sure he actually eats it, but you fail to see how you’re supposed to do that short of spoon feeding it to him. You note with some interest that a faded, rounded script says that he’ll eat anything, but several others have a list of preferences. Perhaps some secretaries simply knew him better than others? Or his tastes changed. But you have to keep in mind all of these people were fired, or quit, for some reason or another. You can only rely on what they say so much. 

Still, better than trying to figure it all out by flying blind. 

Other than ensuring he has meals, you also have the more typical secretary duties. You manage his incoming--and to an extent, outgoing--mail, You take messages, you’re in charge of his schedule and making sure everything that needs to get done _does_ get done… without exhausting or angering him in the process. Essentially, you keep him, his job, and his daily life organized. 

Shouldn’t be too hard, really. You do that for yourself already, and you’re willing to bet no matter how complicated his job is, it’s simpler than balancing half a dozen different part time schedules. 

You get through the rest of the day without making any catastrophic mistakes besides the coffee… at least, none that he feels the need to openly scold you for. Mr. Solas is out of his office for most of the day, as he stated. The only other words he speaks to you that day are “enter” when you knock on his doorframe, a brief “thank you” after you deliver his messages, and “I’m leaving now” as he heads out of the office at five o’clock in the evening on the dot. 

You’re certain you made a mess of delivering the messages. You had no real idea which ones were most important and ordered them essentially by guessing. But Mr. Solas had reached out his hand for three different messages, indicating you were to hand him the papers on which you’d recorded the details of those calls. Those had to be important ones. You could remember the names and subjects for the future… Thank the Maker, you’ve always had a very good memory. 

You finish up your work and stumble out of INQCO about half an hour after Mr. Solas leaves. You’ve been awake for nearly 24 hours at this point and you’re really starting to feel it. Fortunately, you have time for a nap before your next shift… You kind of want to go home and sleep in your own bed, since you don’t start til eleven, but you can get more rest by sleeping in the break room at Andaran A’Tea’Shan… so that’s what you do. 

-

Normally, you would spend all of Monday afternoon unconscious, recovering from the hell that is the beginning of your workweek. Unfortunately, you have a guidebook to analyze and memorize, so instead of passing out for four to six hours, you catch a brief not-even-two-hour nap before your alarm wakes you, a blaring reminder that one is never _really_ away from work. 

The Guide is, frankly, a mess, but you start to make heads or tails of it as you read. Most of the contradictory information is on things he likes--what food, how he takes his coffee, whether the curtains should be left open or closed. Frankly, some of it seems utterly superfluous. You just focus on the parts to do with your actual job. You zero in on Celia’s handwriting--something you can recognize easily thanks to all the forms she’d drop on your desk. Yes, she was fired, but she was also the most recent employee--her information is most likely to be accurate. 

It’s lucky that you set so many alarms throughout the day, because you’re awoken by a blaring rendition of Lowtown Legacy’s newest single. You blindly grope for your phone before you’re even fully awake. Where are you? What time is it? Why did you think this was a good song to use for your alarm? Waking up to Fenris’ voice just makes you want to roll over and go back to the dream you were having. 

You glare at your phone until your eyes consent to focus, grudgingly becoming aware that you really _do_ mean to stay up and not go back to sleep. Ten thirty… Maker, Belassan had let you sleep right through closing and everything. Wait. Sleep? Hadn’t you been reading? You glance down and realize you had, in fact, fallen asleep on the Guide, one page of which is now slightly sticky from your drool. Grand. You decide not to think about how many other bodily fluids might be on the damn thing. You’re going to get this reprinted in a _reasonable_ format just as soon as you’ve finished figuring out what the hell it says. 

Overnight baking is a cinch, and every spare minute you get is spent reading the Guide. No one is here to chastise you, and you’re perfectly capable of half-assing this. You’ve been baking long enough at this point to be able to do it in your sleep. You finish your shift just before 4am, and then spend the rest of the morning reading before conking out again. You don’t even get an hour into sleep before your alarm is blaring you awake again, Hawke’s not-so-soothing guitar solo feeling like a kick in the teeth. 

Ugh, it’s not even seven, why is… Oh. Right. There’s a little reminder on the alarm, so that you wouldn’t forget you have to go to fucking _Starharts_ to get Mr. Solas his shitty not-coffee order. You curse under your breath as you trip over to your locker and ready yourself for the day. 

[ ](https://40.media.tumblr.com/e01ada1a789f38f1cbfcc579a78d28b1/tumblr_o0k60kOslz1ujnffto1_1280.jpg)

-

Starharts is a nightmare. When is it not? And at this hour? There are like five within a twenty block radius and you’re willing to bet they’re all this busy. Even an mom n pop like Andaran A’Tea’Shan does _crazy good_ foot traffic in the mornings, being this close to the Belle Marche. The line is hell, the coffee isn’t as good, and you’re wasting like thirty or forty-five minutes of time you could be spending sleeping. You read the Guide in line, but you’re almost too bitter to focus on it. Or perhaps just too sleepy. 

You pay for the overpriced, subpar coffee with the business card you were given, and glare sourly at it when it finally comes. The name on the side of the cup reads “Solus.” Great. You’ll fix that your damn self before you give it to him--with your luck, he’d be offended. All of this extra time and trouble, just to have coffee served in a freaking Starharts cup instead of-- 

Unbidden, your eyes slide from the cup in your hand to the stack of similar cups by the counter. Hmmmm. 

-

Work is insane. Just, absolutely insane. The phone doesn’t actually _stop_ ringing, you’re pretty sure, and you’re supposed to be there as much as possible to keep it from going to voicemail, since apparently Solas works with a great many assholes who hate leaving messages and demand the privilege of a real, flesh and blood person to jot down their damn information. There _has_ to be a way to forward this shit to your insanely fancy work phone, but you have absolutely no idea how. Sera might know--she’s better with that sort of thing. 

You manage to get him lunch on time. He doesn’t say anything about it, but you take that to be a good thing. Actually, he gives you essentially _no_ feedback at all. You can’t quite tell if you’re doing your job properly or not. Would he tell you if you weren’t? He’d certainly been bold in informing you your choice in coffee shops was off… 

But you get through the day, in the end. Solas leaves the office without comment that evening, and you’re not sure if that’s a good or a bad sign. 

“Hasn’t he ever heard of constructive criticism?” you grumble irritably to your desk decorations--in this case, a small rabbit you keep for that little touch of irony. You get away with it because it is technically also a stapler. “Feedback? Commentary? _Anything?_ It was like giving messages to a wall. Ugh.” The desk bunny stares back at you, its eyes blank but understanding. 

You’ve no second job to run off to tonight, so you stay in the office late, working on getting everything organized and set up in ways you couldn’t yesterday. You also read more of the Guide. All told, you probably stay an extra three hours or so, but who’s counting? It’s a salaried position. 

[ ](https://40.media.tumblr.com/dbdb731fe36f526a8cf9cc3b0dc576fa/tumblr_o0k60kOslz1ujnffto2_1280.jpg)

-

You make only one stop before home--Starharts. 

They won’t miss the cups, you tell yourself as you scurry out of the store, a stack of cups and lids crammed inexpertly into your bag. These things probably cost what, five cents each? They’ll be okay. Your need is greater, because whatever their job is, it doesn’t involve working for Mr. Solas. 

Technically, you normally use Tuesdays to catch up on your sleep for the week. Tuesdays and Thursdays, you can actually get a solid eight hours. At _night_ , even! In your own apartment! Quite the luxury. But not tonight. Tonight, you stay up til almost midnight reading and absorbing information from that book--you’re _going_ to have this down by the end of the week, so help you Maker. Then it’s up at 3am for another morning shift at Andaran A’Tea’Shan. 

But today… _today…_

Today, you gleefully pour coffee made by your own hand into a Starharts cup and write “Solas” on it with a dramatic flourish. Belassan watches you, shaking his head, but grinning. 

“Won’t he be able to taste the difference?” the man asks. 

“With this much sugar and syrup in it? Pff! I doubt it!” you say with a snort. “If he had any kind of a taste for coffee, he wouldn’t have asked me to get Starharts instead of ours, anyway. He’s not a coffee snob, just racist.” 

“Racist? Isn’t he an elf?” Belassan asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“That doesn’t appear to be stopping him. Maybe he hasn’t gotten the memo,” you say darkly. “But it’s not like it’ll be the first or last time I bow and scrape to a bigoted ass to get by, I--” 

“Hold on,” Belassan says, stopping you to zipper up the back of your blouse. “There are better ways to get a raise than going into work with your shirt open.” 

You snort. “Thanks, Bel; you’re a lifesaver. With my luck, he’d fire me for it.” 

-

You stare into his office nervously, quickly averting your eyes every time he glances up, as he drinks his coffee. Despite your confidence that he won’t be able to taste a difference, there _is_ a chance, and this _is_ the sort of shenanigan that could get you in trouble. ...But you can always just blame Starharts if the coffee tastes “off.” It’s not like anyone in their right mind would honestly suspect you had stolen a stack of cups and were covertly feeding your racist boss elven coffee. 

But everything seems to go off without a hitch. If he thought it tasted different, he didn’t show any signs of it or speak a word to you. Good. That shaves a good 30 minutes or more off of your morning routine. And you get the added satisfaction of watching him drink it every morning and grinning quietly to yourself. Truly, today you have struck a cunning blow for the Elven Resistance. 

And so it goes. You begin to get more into the hang of things, although by the time Thursday rolls around, you’re so exhausted that you fall asleep at your desk. It’s brief; the phone ringing wakes you in short order, but it’s still not something you can afford. Guide or no Guide, you need to start getting more sleep. It’s almost the weekend; you can work more on it then. You’re obviously competent enough in your job that you can do it without getting immediately fired or screamed at. You’ve already got his schedule set up for the next week. 

You can do this. You _can_ do this. It’s overwhelming and you constantly feel like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, like you’re just making it up as you go along. But you’re doing it. And it’ll get easier as you go, of that you’re certain. You just focus, each day, on making it through, not pissing off your boss, and doing the best job you can. 

You work through your lunch break every single day that first week, and you only take bathroom breaks when Mr. Solas is out of the office. You’re not sure why, exactly. He’d have to seriously lean over his desk to see you from his office; that’s what you have to do when you look in at him. It just seems like you shouldn’t admit to actually having bodily functions like eating, peeing, and sleeping. 

It’s ridiculous, honestly. You see _him_ go in there. He doesn’t make a big deal out of needing to take a leak. Actually, you kind of appreciate it. The man is extremely intimidating, and can seem kind of like an automaton at times. But he eats and pees, so he _must_ be alive. Hell, when he flicks stray water droplets from his hands or comes out still rolling his sleeves own, he seems downright normal. 

On Friday, he actually stops on his way out the door, something he hadn’t done since Monday. 

“Are you planning on coming in over the weekend?” he asks, pulling his gloves on. He actually glances over to you briefly, rather than just throwing the question in your general direction and moving on. 

You hesitate. Is there a right answer to this? “I’m… not at the moment, ser,” you reply cautiously. “Though I certainly can if there’s a need.” 

“I don’t believe so,” he replies, glancing away again. “If you do, however, the security code changes at noon on Sunday, but doesn’t get sent out via corporate e-mail until three. Don’t get locked in.” 

Oh, that’s… damn, that’s actually really good to know. That’s the exact sort of thing you could see happening to you when you have some place you need to be. You wonder, idly, if he has experience with that, or if it’s happened to enough of his secretaries that he actually remembers to remind the new ones. Maybe you just seem like the kind of person to work weekends, or it’s often necessary for the job? 

“Thank you for letting me know, ser,” you respond. “Have a pleasant weekend.” 

He simply makes a noncommittal humming noise as he walks out the door. 

-

The weekend. 

The weekend! 

Somehow, you made it through your first week of work as Mr. Solas’ secretary alive and without being seriously reprimanded for much other than coffee. But you _had_ noticed Mr. Solas had a sort of… “look” he gave you whenever you fucked something up. You hadn’t noticed it at first, not until you dropped a folder of loose papers while entering his office and had to gather them up as fast as possible. It was a look of vague, tired disapproval. Not really even irritation, just… if a person could wear a sigh as an expression, that would be it. 

If he’s not the type to voice when he’s displeased, you’ll have to look for little tells like that. Picky people shouldn’t be allowed to be non-vocal about it. What are you, a mind-reader? Well. If that’s what you need to be, that’s what you’re going to be, damnit. You need this job. 

Still, your extremely relieved to have two whole days off from his anal retention. And to make things even better, Sera had called you on Friday and insisted she take you out for lunch to celebrate your new position. She’ll love to hear you bitch about him all the livelong day. And a free lunch is a free lunch! 

She meets you at an edgy little deli near Alienage. Not that she lives there either, no. Sera is a trust-fund babe, though to her credit, she keeps just enough for a shitty apartment outside of Alienage and gave the rest to charity. Her dumpster-dive aesthetic was mostly just that; an aesthetic. Unlike you, she doesn’t _have_ to get her clothes from thrift stores; she just likes to. But since all that money she never spends on overpriced clothes and lavish luxuries goes to helping out the local lower class--including you--you would never say anything about it. 

She’s well-off, but she didn’t used to be, and she didn’t ask to be, so you can’t hold it against her. It had been a bit of a strain when the two of you were dating, though; you wanted more out of life, if anything, she wanted less. 

Idly staring at her flushed, grinning face and red, red lips, though… You do miss the sex. 

Still, you’re glad the two of you came through it friends, and you’re glad you can sit here in this dingy little cafe with her and bitch about what an absolute _asshole_ your new boss is. 

“And _then_ he says that I need to get him coffee from a ‘more respectable establishment,’ can you _believe_ that?” you exclaim, gesticulating furiously with your sandwich. “I wanted to poke him right in the eye! Ass!” 

“So, wot, now you gotta go all the way to another coffee shop and wait in line?” Sera says with a disbelieving scoff. “What an arse!” 

“That’s what I did Tuesday! And it was a pain, ugh. But… Well…” 

“Ooooh, I know that look. Wot did you do?” Sera says, leaning forwards onto the table and grinning wickedly. 

“Stole some cups from them,” you say quietly, grinning just as much. “I’ve been filling them at work and bringing them in… He hasn’t got a clue!” 

Sera laughs, then, a sound larger than her body has any right to produce. You can’t help chuckling yourself. She always cheers you up, just by being around. 

“Any gigs for me coming up, Sera?” you ask, a bit more seriously. 

“You still gonna do that, wot with this fancy new job title?” she asks, tilting her head. 

“I have to. There’s no such thing as ‘enough’ money for me right now, Sera,” you say with a sigh. “Got anything lined up?” 

“You still only doing weekends?” Sera asks, pulling out a little notebook. 

“I can do some evenings too, if the pay is good,” though you’re frowning just thinking about losing your Tuesdays or Thursdays off. 

“I got one atttt… University of Orlais, a few weeks from now. It’sa eight AM class, full nude, regular rate, four hours. No one wants it.” 

“Why?” you ask cautiously. “It’s not Professor Archambault again, is it?” 

“Nah, but it’s amateurs. Not even students. Yer probably gonna get hit on,” she informs you. You let out a sigh. 

“Whatever, at least artists never pinch or slap. I’ll take it. They’re fine with an elf?” 

“Yeah, they didn’t ask for once specifically, either, so you should be good there,” she says, jotting something--probably your name--down in her book. “I’ll let ‘em know. Oh. And if yer interested, I’m gonna be out of town next week. Looking for someone to cover for me.” 

“With the models?” you ask, bewildered. 

“Nah! With the lil fuzzballs. I got like twelve that weekend, if you can cover some.” 

“Normal rate?” 

“Nah, I’ll let you take the full! S’only fair.” 

That’s a pretty generous offer. Normally when Sera fosters the work from her pet sitting business off onto other people, she still takes a cut. Actually, you’re convinced she makes the vast majority of her income just being the middle man between employer and employee, like she is with you and the other life models. 

“I’ll take them all, then. I haven’t got shit scheduled that weekend, other than laundry,” you say with a sigh. “I’ve gotta run now, Sera. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” 

“Aww, awright! You take care, luv, and don’t let So-ass getcha down!” 

“Solas,” you correct without thinking as you gather your stuff into your bag. No calls from work, thank the Maker. 

“S’what I said.” 

-

“So, how’s this new job treating you?” 

“It’s good, it’s good,” you say, twiddling your thumbs. A nervous tick you put on for her benefit. “Have you had a chance to look at the insurance yet? Is it going to help over any of this?” 

“Yes, it should, starting next month. If the job causes undue stress, however… Well, just keep your options open.” 

“Of course,” you lie. This job could be sending you towards an early grave and you’d still be working it. The insurance! Finally, finally, it won’t be “pre-existing condition” over and over. You can start paying off your debt, start getting some real treatment… 

“So, this man you’re working for, Mr…?” 

“Solas. Mr. Solas.” 

“What do you make of him?” 

“He’s unpleasant,” you reply; there’s no reason to lie about this. “But bosses are supposed to be unpleasant. He’s certainly not the worst person I’ve worked for, and he seems extremely competent.” 

She jots something down in her notebook. You hate when she does that. 

“So you believe the job will stick?” 

“I do, yes.” 

“You mentioned before that the previous workers were all fired or quit. You don’t think that will happen to you?” 

“No. I mean, I might get fired; I don’t really have control over that. But I’m not going to quit. I need this,” you say firmly. “And I can do it.” 

“You seem even more tired than usual, though. Your makeup is heavier, too… hiding bags under your eyes?” 

“The first few weeks of a new job are always difficult. I’m fine.” 

“Are you getting enough sleep?” 

“Absolutely.” 

A sigh, and then she sets down her pen. “You know, Emma, this doesn’t work if you’re not honest.” 

“If you want to know if I’m getting a solid eight hours from ten to six, ask me that, instead. You asked if I’m getting enough sleep. I am.” Your eyes flick to the clock on the wall. Just a few more minutes. You try not to look too jittery, too eager to be out the door. You know she probably notices anyway. 

“Plans for today?” she asks, obviously picking up on your eagerness to be anywhere but here. 

“It’s Saturday,” you say with a thin smile. “I’m going to go home and rest.” You’re going to go home and reorganize the Guide into something more manageable before Monday. 

“Alright. You clearly need the rest, so I’ll let you go a little bit early this week. Same time, two weeks,” she reminds you. “Don’t stay at the hospital too long,” she adds as you’re grabbing your bag and heading for the door. 

“I won’t, Dr. de Fer,” you say with a sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week late, but not my fault for once! (Mostly.) Our dear artist had some stuff come up, and on Tumblr everyone voted for "late update with art." To compensate, this one is about 1.5k longer than usual!

Bills, bills, bills. They’re the story of your life, your sole motivation. New bills for new treatments means you need more money, more money still… even with your increased pay from INQCO, it’s time to look for another steady job. You can’t depend on Sera’s random gigs. The thought makes you cringe, but you still have a few evenings you could sell to the highest bidder. Something that isn’t too physical, no heavy lifting, but if it’s a desk job or just standing in one place, maybe… 

That’s what’s on your mind Monday morning. It shouldn’t be; you should be focusing on work. Mr. Solas had informed you when he arrived this morning that you’d be taking lunch _with_ him for some Maker forsaken reason. Was it a good or a bad sign when your boss wanted to speak with you about your job? Probably bad. But your little guidebook held no clues. You assume he’s not going to fire you simply because he doesn’t strike you as the kind of sadist to make you work half a day before firing you over--you glance down at your plans for the day--“Antivan braised lamb.” 

This also means you have to actually stop for lunch today, instead of just working straight through it the way you did all last week. You didn’t exactly organize for braised lamb for two, but you can call the caterers and see if they can throw _something_ on there for you. Mr. Solas strikes you as the kind of person who doesn’t like actually thinking about the fact some people can’t afford to eat braised lamb for lunch. If you didn’t eat with him, he’d probably be offended, because of course he would. Ugh. 

In the end, you wind up working so hard and worrying so much about your finances that lunch sneaks up on you. You barely have time for a small panic attack before catering delivers lunch. They’ve got some sort of salad for you; whatever. You know you’ll probably barely touch it due to your nerves. You make the last few preparations to the food--rich people don’t eat out of styrofoam containers apparently--and then head into his office. 

\--

So, this is why he has a dining table in his office, you guess. 

All previous times, he had taken his lunch at his desk, probably so that he could keep working while he ate. Today, however, he’s moves to the small dining room table by the window-- _this office is ridiculous_ \--and gestures for you to sit across from him. He takes a bite from his meal and swallows, officially signaling the start of the meal, you suppose--though you barely glance at your salad. Then he clears his throat and speaks. 

“Normally, you would have a much longer vetting period to adjust to your new position,” Mr. Solas says with a sigh. “But we are picking up new contracts left and right, and without a personal assistant, I’m hobbled. So I’m moving things along more quickly. I believe you can handle it.” 

_If not, we’ll find someone else who can._ The words are unspoken, but you certainly feel that implication. He’d fired enough secretaries to convince you he was not one to hold on to someone who couldn’t keep up. 

“Absolutely, ser,” you reply promptly. 

He nods, a slight indication of approval. More than you tend to get. “Beginning this week, you’ll be easing into providing more of the _personal_ service of a ‘personal assistance.” 

Only your intense skill at keeping a straight face saves you. Perhaps it’s just because some of your other jobs put the emphasis on _personal_ , but Maker, the way he said that. And he clearly has no clue, as he flips through a folder and moves right along with the conversation. Were he a less serious man, you’d make a quip about needing to be paid more for “personal” services. But you’re not suicidal. 

“...as well as accompanying me to meetings, taking minutes… even serving coffee,” he continues, though you notice he looks irritated to mention the coffee. Maker only knows why. Your ability to read expressions doesn’t extend to explaining the motivation behind them. “There’s also the increased likelihood of being called in outside of hours. I try to keep to a minimum, but it _does_ happen.” 

Hopefully, it doesn’t happen too terribly often. He only needs to call you in while you’re at another job _once_ for serious issues to start cropping up. But, in the end, this job takes priority--it’s the only one giving you health insurance. 

“Obviously, if you’re to be any use whatsoever in these additional functions, you’ll need to know more about the company and what I do, specifically. I’m sure Mrs. Montiliyet was extremely vague when instructing you.” He actually _chuckles_ , although you’re not sure you can call it that. It’s more like a chuckle, singular. One chuck, and then he continues. “Please take these home and read them thoroughly,” he says, gesturing to what you’d _thought_ was his work papers, stacked in the middle of the table. There’s… a lot of them, as well as what appears to be a literal book. “You needn’t read them all tonight. You won’t be taking on additional work until Wednesday. But if you do happen to finish them tonight, you will have time to ask me questions tomorrow… briefly.” 

You feel like you’re back in fucking college. Ugh. There goes your sleep this evening. But all you do is nod and say, “Yes, ser.” You feel a bit like a broken record, but there’s not much else to say. 

“For now, do you have any questions?” 

You eye the man, considering. You have lots of questions, of course, but you need a moment to figure out if any of them are actually worth asking. It will be nice to learn more about the company… You had done plenty of research when preparing for your interview, but most Orlesian companies are far from transparent. Plus, waste removal and ecological repair isn’t exactly the least shady industry. From what you’ve gathered in your week working for him, Mr. Solas does a great deal of work, and often handles the requisitions of large contracts personally. You had assumed that as Vice President, his role would be mostly delegatory, but that didn’t seem to be the case. 

“I was informed by Ms. Montiliyet when I accepted the position that six secretaries prior to myself had been relieved of duty this year alone,” you say, after carefully considering your phrasing. “Is there a particular reason? Any patterns of failure that I could learn from and avoid?” 

Mr. Solas’ face is neutral as he leans back, seemingly considering you. “They couldn’t do the job,” he says finally. “My business, and therefore my life, is fast paced, but absolutely cannot be hectic. Ideally, I require someone organized and competent to assist me.” He taps his fork against the side of his plate idly--a nervous habit, perhaps? “All six before you were ultimately inadequate. Talented men and women, every one of them, but… simply not up to the task. There is no secret to pleasing me, Ms. Emma, no single thing to avoid at all costs. Learn to do the job as quickly and competently as you can. You are either the right person for the job, or you are not. Only time will tell.” 

Your face is the same shade of practiced neutrality as his, you’re sure. You wonder if he has it for similar reasons--he is currently the _only_ elven CEO or VP of _any Les 500 Fortunes_ company. Even the CEO of INQCO--Eugene Trevelyan--is human. It can’t have been an easy position to get, and it can’t be an easy position to keep. Not that your own job is feeling particularly easy to keep, either. 

“Very well, ser. I’ll do my best.” 

\--

This is… a ridiculous amount to read. Normally you would head home after work on Monday to catch a few blissful hours of sleep. Instead, you go to a nearby reading cafe, order the most caffeinated thing on the menu, and get to work. It’s hard to absorb parts of it given that you haven’t slept since… since… some time Sunday afternoon, you think. But as with most things, it’s solved by pumping yourself with enough caffeine. 

And you do learn a lot. The idea of for-profit environmental cleanup is exactly as unpleasant to you as it’s always been, but your morals take a backseat to earning money. You suspect that’s what everyone tells themselves, which is exactly why an _environmental cleanup_ company is one of the fastest rising businesses in Orlais. Profit was all that mattered, regulations were cut, then the Breach happened. Now there’s Blight all over again and WARD does what it can, but a non-profit can only do so much… INQCO just so happened to be ready to pick up the slack. 

You would be thrilled to be on the forefront of a company that was helping to save lives or whatever if you actually gave a shit about that sort of thing. But you’re genuinely too jaded to think INQCO is in it for anything but profit. Still, it’s good PR to have so many elves involved in a company well-regarded for doing good. If you can keep this job, you _could_ be on the forefront of that, eventually. You just have to prove to Mr. Solas that you’re “the right person for the job.” 

For tonight, however, you’re the right person for the job of baking. You get almost all of the reading done before your overnight at Andaran A’Tea’Shan. By the time you’re done, you’re practically the undead. It’s effortless for you to pass out in the break room, and you even sleep through your first alarm--which is why you set three. 

Even with the short nap you managed to catch, it’s clear your body is _mad_ at you. You spill Mr. Solas’ drink--and nearly trip into traffic in the process--and have to run back to Andaran A’Tea’Shan for another. You’re not late only because you normally get to work half an hour early. 

You’re off the whole day, half-dazed and having trouble focusing, but you manage to get through it, somehow. You think you black out at the desk for a little bit, but the phone ringing brings you back to. But it’s Tuesday, mercifully, which means it’s your night off. Once 5:30 hits, you can head straight home and pass out. Well, after finishing the last bit of the reading you couldn’t do last night. But you had gotten through most of it, and take advantage of that to ask Mr. Solas a few questions when he gives you the opportunity towards the end of the day. They’re good questions--you memorized them ahead of time. They’re not questions you necessarily need or even want to know the answers to; they’re questions designed to demonstrate you read the shit out of what he asked you to. Hopefully he’s satisfied. 

You fall asleep on the bus home and almost miss your stop--it’s only the bus driver waking you that saves you. He knows you--you take this same bus in and out of the city pretty much every day. And elves have to watch each other’s back. 

You stumble up the stairs and into your apartment, scribble yourself a reminder to water the plants in the morning, and then collapse into bed. 

\-- 

It’s the next day before you learn why you shouldn’t work a high-stakes job on 2 hours of sleep stretched over 48 hours. Not fifteen minutes before he normally leaves, Mr. Solas calls you into his office. You assume at first that it’s to see if you have any more questions about your reading material, or detail more of your new tasks. Instead, he slides his schedule book across his desk towards you. 

“Explain this to me,” he says simply. The tone in his voice has you nervous immediately. The last time you heard him take that tone, he’d pretty much told you that your coffee was an abomination. You quickly look at the schedule, hunting for something that may have pissed him off--the wrong caterer, a mislabeled… 

Oh. 

Ooooooh fuck. 

You swallow, hard, and when you speak, your voice is strained. “I, um… appear to have made a mistake in your scheduling for Friday,” you say weakly. 

“And what mistake would that be?” he says, voice clipped. 

“I… double-booked your afternoon.” 

“Indeed. I am very good at my job, Ms. Emma, but I’ll admit--I have yet to perfect the art of being in two places at once.” 

Oh you are _so fired._

“I’ll, um…” you clear your throat, trying to beat back the surging panic. He hasn’t fired you _yet._ “I’ll… fix that.” 

“Oh?” Mr. Solas says, voice practically dripping acid. “That would be impressive, given the people involved… and that it’s less than two days away. No, I’ll… deal with this in the morning,” he says with an irritated sigh. 

“I’m sure I can--” 

“You may return to your desk, Ms. Emma.” 

Well. 

Fuck. 

\-- 

Mr. Solas leaves the office ten minutes later--normally you would follow after about half an hour of preparing for the next day. But not today. No, the second he’s out the door your hand is on the phone, and you begin making frantic call after frantic call. 

“Hello, this is Emma from INQCO, calling about--yes, I’ll hold.” 

“Celeste! It’s Emma. Are you still working at _Le Tapir Rose_?” 

“Ian, you owe me. Remember the pineapple? ...Yes, I still remember that. No one forgets that sort of thing, Ian, I promise you. ...Well, I could have convenient onset amnesia if you can move me up to Tuesday. ...Yes, I _am_ lucky I’m cute. I’m also lucky you have a drinking problem.” 

“Hello, I’m calling about Mr. Abernache’s Friday meeting… Yes, yes, we’re very excited as well. In fact…” 

It’s _late_ by the time you leave the office. You just go straight to your overnight at Andaran A’Tea’Shan, which, frankly, is a blur. Hopefully you don’t just fuck up again tomorrow from lack of sleep, but you’ve only yourself to blame. It’s not like you can get any _more_ fired, anyway. After another long night spent baking instead of sleeping, you pass out in the break room, praying that your little favor chain is enough to fix your mistake and keep your job. 

\--

“Emma? Emma, your phone keeps going off. Don’t you need to be getting ready for work?” 

“Nnngh?” You bat vaguely at the person shaking you before realizing it’s Belassan. You fumble for your phone, staring for the time through one bloodshot eye. “Ah… _FUCK._ ” You slept in. Of course you slept in. Through three alarms. “ _Merde, fanculo, futuo, fenedhis--_ ” 

“I get the picture,” Belassan says vaguely. “Can I help you get ready?” 

You’re already bouncing to your feet and stripping out of your work clothes from the night before. Belassan quickly about-faces, but you couldn’t care less. “Yes! Can you make Mr. Solas’ stupid fucking drink? It’s a large decaf--” 

“I’ve seen you make it every day for a week,” he says, cutting you off. “I’ll get it made, don’t worry.” 

“Two, please! Thanks, Belassan, you’re a saint,” you say, already grabbing a clean set of clothes from your locker. “ _Fenedhis_ he is going to kill me, I’m dead, this is how I die,” you mutter as you prepare as fast as you can. 

You stumble into the office about five minutes late--the first time you’ve arrived _after_ your boss. You run straight to your desk, grab the schedule, and then scurry into his office with his coffee and breakfast. He looks intensely unamused to see you. 

“I see you’ve decided to grace the office with your presence after all,” he says dryly as you set his drink and food down in their regular places despite the fact he’s already sitting at his desk. 

“I apologize for being late, ser,” you reply. “Here is your updated schedule--I should have the second half of next week finished by lunch.” He doesn’t quite snap it out of your hands, but he looks less than pleased about the entire situation. His expression switches quickly from annoyed to surprised, however. The sight of his eyebrows rising fills you with hope. You watch as his eyes trace over the next week--no doubt attempting to figure out what you did with Abernache. 

“I suppose Abernache was less than pleased about the shift in his schedule,” Mr. Solas says after a moment. 

“Not at all, ser. I remembered that his secretary had mentioned he had been irritated by his inability to get last-minute reservations at _La Tapir Rose_ while he was in the city. As luck would have it, I managed to secure a reservation for Tuesday evening.” Mr. Solas glances up over the papers at you, and you let yourself grin a little sheepishly. “He thinks the shift in schedule is testament to _your_ connections rather than _my_ incompetence. I didn’t feel like correcting him.” 

Mr. Solas is silent for a minute longer. His eyes on yours are _piercing._ You hadn’t maintained eye contact with him long enough before now; you’re just now realizing how damn blue his eyes are. It’s a bit distracting when you’re supposed to be terrified for your job, but you are perhaps a little too sleep deprived to be able to feel proper terror. 

“Hopefully next time, you can simply do it correctly the first time rather than exhausting yourself correcting a mistake,” he says finally, and sets the schedule down. _Next time._ Your sigh of relief is audible, but you try to disguise it as an exhale. He has to know how nervous you were, however. You’re good at hiding your expression, but you’re not a _god._ “Make sure you record your extra hours,” he adds.

“Oh, that’s not necessary--” you begin. After all, it had been your fuck up. Getting paid extra for it seems kind of ludicrous. 

“Don’t be foolish,” he says with a scowl. “I can’t have you working overtime unpaid. Record it and turn it in properly. You’ll be attending your first meeting with me tomorrow. The one for the Arceneaux contract, in the afternoon.” The one you’d accidentally double-booked. Probably not a coincidence. “You’ll be recording the minutes for it, but you shouldn’t need to do much else.” 

“Yes, ser,” you say, trying not to sound the way you feel--like you’re about to pass out from a combination of relief and lack of sleep. He leans back and picks up his coffee cup. You see him run a thumb over his name on the side and have a surge of panic--did he notice something was off? But he simply takes a sip. When you stand there a moment longer, he waves you out of the room with a casual flip of his hand, as if shooing a small dog. 

You walk stiffly back to your desk, then sink into your chair with a quiet groan. You let yourself slouch for a bit, eyeing the rabbit stapler on your desk sourly. Its beady eyes feel knowing, understanding. “I know,” the stapler seems to say. “We did it.” 

No time to be relieved for long, however. You’ve got a long, _careful_ day of work in front of you. 

After work, you head straight home. You glare blearily at your constantly-dying plants before giving up and watering them with a brief prayer to, you don’t fucking know, Sylaise or someone, who’s supposed to handle plants? After a brief dinner of “what is this? where’s the expiration date on this can of beans? Fuck it I’m just making ramen,” you sink into bed. It’s been a very long almost-two-weeks, but tonight? Tonight you can sleep. You have to be up at three in the morning to make it in to your shift at Andaran A’Tea’Shan, but that still gives you time for nearly-eight-hours of blissful, blissful rest. 

\--

You dress extra nice after your shift at Andaran A’Tea’Shan. Your best formal business wear could probably also be mistaken for something worn by a grieving widow--right after she poisoned her rich husband--but it’s what you have. It’s not like you can afford to just go out and buy work clothes--or any clothes. 

All of your business attire is hand-me-downs from the last age, and most of your regular wardrobe is hodge-podged together out of unwanted scraps from ex-girlfriends, one-night-stands, and girls at work. Anything you have that you bought, you bought from a thrift store. Hell, you have one pair of pumps that were the ugliest of puke yellow you had ever seen--but in your size and only a silver. You’d taken them home and covered them with stickers and then shrink wrapped them. Voila--fashion. Fashion for a silver. 

You’re not wearing those shoes today, of course, though work would certainly be much more lively if you could. No, your outfit is severe and your shoes are too. They’re heels only because you’re already very tall for an elven woman, and you love being taller than humans. It makes them uncomfortable. You’re bound to be in a meeting with a lot of unpleasant, rich shems today, and if you can be taller than even one of them, you will have a little bit of background satisfaction to get you through. 

The morning goes normally--you’re finally starting to get slightly into the swing of things, though you’re still very much learning every day, and you still have to regularly pause to tear through the Guide. You’re hoping that this weekend you’ll get a chance to sit down and transcribe some of it into a slightly more… legible, usable form, but until then you’re left squinting at various forms of handwriting and guessing as to which piece of advice is what you need in a given situation. 

Fifteen minutes before you’re scheduled to leave for the meeting, you nervously touch up your makeup in the bathroom mirror. Literally all you’re going to be doing is taking minutes--one of the things you’re actually quite excellent at--and learning. Probably bringing coffee and providing window dressing as well, but that’s expected. You really shouldn’t be this nervous. But after having already fucked up once, well… you’re wondering just how many “strikes” you get before you’re “out.” 

You gather your supplies. You check, recheck, then check for a third time. You finish your coffee, then stare at the empty cup for a bit. You glance at the clock. Ten more minutes. Which you spend twitching. 

When Mr. Solas finally steps out of his office, you practically ricochet out of your seat. You shouldn’t be this nervous--but you are. You’ll just have to try not to let it show. 

Shadowing Mr. Solas out of the office feels _weird._ He has a very fast walking pace and very long legs. You don’t jog to keep up because that would be incredibly undignified, but you’re definitely power walking. You take a moment to pity any of his previous secretaries who didn’t have your experience with dancing and running in heels. 

The meeting takes places not in the actual (probably) meeting room in Mr. Solas’ office, but at one of (probably) dozens throughout the building. You jot down a reminder to yourself to ask him why--this was supposed to be a learning experience for you, after all. The men--all human--are being tended to by an elven woman. The stereotype is broken nicely as you and Mr. Solas enter, you think, though that’s pretty much entirely due to him. You’re every inch a secretarial stereotype; you would fit in perfectly if not for the fact your boss’ ears were just as pointy as your own. You take a moment to appreciate the way his choice to go bald leaves them plain and open for view no matter the angle. 

You wonder if that’s _why_ he’s bald, or if he’s just bald _despite_ that. Either is impressive in its own way. 

The elven woman gives you a _look_ , one shared by women and elves and especially elven women throughout history. Oh, Maker. Sure enough, the men don’t waste any time. 

“This has to be our Solas, then,” chortles one man, standing to shake Mr. Solas’ hand. “He’s important enough to have his own maid follow him around.” Your face is expressionless as Mr. Solas shakes the man’s hand. 

“Mr. Arceneaux, so good to finally meet you,” Mr. Solas says pleasantly. “This is my personal assistant, Ms. Emma. She will be taking record of the meeting, so if you need anything--” 

“A coffee, then,” one of the other men interrupts. You watch Mr. Solas’ face, but it stays neutral. He looks more annoyed than that when you stutter in the middle of a sentence. You suppose he’s used to it, but that means you have to be used to it too. “The last rabbit scurried off before she could do much of anything.” 

You look to Mr. Solas, and he nods, so with a sullen heart, you toddle off to fetch the mens’ coffee, grumbling under your breath as soon as you’re out of earshot. “Oooh, here’s your promotion, Emma. It pays nearly double your previous wage and comes with insurance. The job description? Oh… Coffee runs for racists, mostly.” 

Still, you’ve done more degrading things for less money, so you grit your teeth and re-enter the room with six cups of coffee and a pleasant expression. 

“--Surprised to hear an _elf_ of all things was going to be handling it,” you hear as you enter. 

“I’ll admit, I thought they were handing us off to the help as well, at first,” Mr. Arceneaux says. “But no, it’s just an oddity of the company.” 

“INQCO’s staff is currently over sixty percent elven,” Mr. Solas replies as you begin setting the coffee down in front of each fellow. You’ll need to find a comfortable place to stand to take the minutes, somewhere out of the way--if you’re lucky, they’ll forget you’re there. “Mr. Trevelyan is very adamant about promoting based on skill, not race.” 

“Tell me, though, Solas, can we really trust a bunch of rabbits to this? ARC has already been fined by the Orlesian government once this quarter. These new standards are ridiculous, but the Empress and her Senate seem extremely serious about enforcing them. It's imperative we meet the new safety and emissions standards.” 

“I assure you, sers, we are the best at what we do,” Mr. Solas replies diplomatically. You set the last coffee down in front of the final man and glance around for a good corner to disappear into. “WARD focuses on cleanup and containment, but here at INQCO, we aim to ensure that breaches never happen to begin with. If you’re ready to begin--” Just then, you feel an unpleasantly familiar sensation--that of a hand on your ass. You have just enough time to grit your teeth before the man pinches, causing you to jump slightly. It’s an old game--make the rabbit jump--and the men notice and react predictably, laughing amongst themselves. You take a deep breath and keep your hands from clenching into fists--the Iron Bull isn’t here to back you up if you deck one of the “customers.” 

“Mr. Arceneaux, I was unaware you were going to be bringing your son to this meeting,” Mr. Solas says sharply, interrupting the laughter. The man tilts his head in confusion. 

“Pardon me? I’ve done no such thing.” 

“Oh? My mistake. I thought your associate here must be a child, to be behaving in such a manner,” Mr. Solas continues. “We do wish for you to be comfortable, ser,” he goes on, addressing the man who pinched you directly. “If you would like a few toys brought in, or perhaps a coloring book, I’m sure Emma could find something quickly before we start the meeting.”

You stare at Mr. Solas in disbelief. What is he doing? He’d been placidly accepting the slurs up til now. 

“I… I don’t…” the man who pinched you splutters, turning red in the face. “I never--” 

“I don’t know, Sam, you do bore easily,” one of the other men jokes. “A coloring book might not be a bad idea.” 

“Has to be more interesting than the pamphlets they gave us at the last place,” a third man adds in, and a bit of light chuckling echoes around the conference table. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The man who pinched you is still bright red and looks more than a little angry and humiliated, but without the anger of his companions, it looks like he’s swallowing it. Thank the Maker. 

You find a corner to stand in as the meeting begins. It’s out of the line of sight of most of the humans, who are sitting around the conference table and facing Mr. Solas, who is at the head. That it gives you a good view of his expression and body language is a side benefit… but it’s one you take full advantage of. You’re here to learn. That includes learning about him. 

What _was_ that? He could have jeopardized the contract doing that. The humans were obviously already hostile to dealing with an elf. Not only are you just a secretary; you’re a secretary he’s not even sure he’s _keeping_ yet. You’ve had the job for barely two weeks! You try to reason it out--is he scared of a lawsuit? He’d be an idiot if he was. No, matter how you look at it, it seems like he just draws the line at sexual harassment. 

Good to know. 

Despite the somewhat awkward start, the meeting goes well. Mr. Solas speaks eloquently and surprisingly charismatically. Regardless of whether you liked him or not, you certainly wouldn’t question that he absolutely knows what he’s talking about. Which, you suppose, is probably why he has this job and not some shem kiss-ass like the asshole who grabbed you. You’ve never actually seen Mr. Trevelyan other than in press conferences. It’s possible he’s mostly a figurehead, but since that would put Mr. Solas--an elf and also your boss--directly in charge of a powerful company… You choose to ignore that possibility and believe Mr. Solas simply _handles_ things like this. 

For your part, you take the best damn minutes you can and jot down a handful of questions you want to ask. You’re willing to bet Mr. Solas has landed the contract; it will be down to arranging the specifics which, in fact, is neither his job nor yours. Mission accomplished for you; you got through your first meeting as Mr. Solas’ personal assistant only minorly molested. 

Mr. Solas sees them out of the meeting room and to the person who will be leading them out of the building. He’s all manners and polite smiles right up until they’re out of sight. Almost immediately, his posture slumps and his smile slides into an irritated scowl. It’s like flipping a light switch. 

“I apologize for that, Ms. Emma,” he says darkly. “It is ludicrous the kind of men this world allows to gain power--” 

“Not at all,” you say smoothly, although under any other circumstances, you would love to hear the rest of _that_ rant. “I appreciate your intervention. I have the minutes here, as well as some questions when you next have the time…” 

“I believe _you_ are in charge of my schedule,” Mr. Solas says dryly. “Ideally, you would know when I have ‘time.’” 

You snort. “My last boss would have been pissed if I penned ‘time with the secretary’ into her schedule,” you say as you thumb through your papers, mind not fully on the informality of what you just said. Particularly considering your relationship to your last boss. Lesson learned there, though. Never let your girlfriend hire you onto a business. That’s why you hadn’t started working with Sera until _after_ the two of you broke up. 

“You’ve nothing until your 3 o’clock,” you inform him. “I should probably get back to your office. That phone won’t answer itself.” 

“I believe you’ll find it will,” he replies. 

“The answering machine does not count.” At least according to the frantically scribbled notes of his previous secretaries. 

Mr. Solas sighs, then leans back against the wall. You want to flinch. He shouldn’t be leaning on anything with a suit that expensive on. “After our clients became increasingly… high-brow… I insisted they install something of a fail safe. The only time someone will reach my answering machine is if you send them there. Otherwise, after thirty seconds, the call transfers. In the past, the messages would be forwarded to me. Now that I have a secretary again, however, I can have them forwarded to you instead. It will save me a great deal of time to have you comb through them for anything that matters.” 

You try not to focus on how he talks about hundred-thousand sovereign deals as if they were an annoyance to be filtered out. Maybe they are, to him. Gotta save the effort for the million-sovereign deals, you suppose. 

“Yes, ser,” you reply, back to manners now that you’ve had a brief reminder of your relative places in the world. 

Mr. Solas lets out a long, deep sigh, then stands up from his slouch against the wall and straightens his suit. “I will go back to the office as well. There is work I can do before my 3 o’clock. Ask your questions; you have as many as I can answer on the way there.” 

He begins heading towards the elevator, and you trail him quickly, not wasting a single breath before launching into your question.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please click through to view the full sized image! Trust me, the art is gorgeous, you want to see all the amusing details.

The weekend is never particularly restful for you, but you’re grumpy as fuck when you wake up at six am after a long night at work to take care of some rich assholes’ pets. But the sitting jobs actually pay pretty well, and Sera’s letting you take the full amount for _twelve_ pets. That is a _lot_ of coin for a few hours of your weekend. 

You’ve done this before, so you know to wear something you don’t care about. You yank on the leggings from last time--they’ve got runs and tears from dogs jumping on your legs already, so it doesn’t matter if they get more. A pair of shorts over that--it’s late summer and already heating up despite the early hour. Boots, rather than flats, something firm but comfortable and that’ll make it hard for you to get yanked off your feet. 

Over top, you throw on a long sleeved… well, it might have been a sweater, actually, decades ago, but right now it was worn paper thin and ratty at all the edges, with a neck hole that could best be described as “charitable.” Sometimes it could fall down your shoulder but, whatever, it means you’re covered and it’s made for someone six times your size so it means perverts won’t stare. 

Sera had neglected to mention one important detail about the pets you were to be caring for this weekend. In her defense, you hadn’t asked, but… Still, you’d wish she’d told you about the, ah… variety. 

Cats were a cinch. They always were. Do you know how easy it is to take care of cats? Feed them, clean their litter box, make sure they hadn’t broken anything important, and--in the case of one elderly Blue Anders--cram a pill down their throats. Cakewalk. 

The parrot threw you a little bit, especially because the instructions Sera had written you mandated a “fifteen minute chat,” which was a little weird. You spent most of it teaching it how to say “alas! I am a bird” in Nevarran. And the snake, well, that was just gross as shit. But all of that paled in comparison to… 

The dogs. 

You’d known there were eight. What you hadn’t realized was _six of the damn things belonged to the same household._ And the size variation was ridiculous. Was it wise, really, to have a pug in the same house as a Ferelden Wolfhound? All six were different breeds, and all six required--nay, _demanded_ \--”walkies.” Which is how you find yourself being half-dragged out of an apartment complex and down the street by six fucking dogs. 

You’re glad at this point that you decided on tights--even kind of torn up tights--and long sleeves, because without them, you would be covered in scratches. As it is you’re really letting them decide which way you go. You don’t have the upper body strength to make that decision against their will, really. But the problem is that sometimes they don’t agree on which way to go. 

It’s one such occasion that sends you off balance, as several dogs decide they want to go into a coffee shop and several other dogs decide they want to keep moving forward at a very swift pace. You stumble, but don’t quite fall. You pull on the leashes of the dogs attempting to enter a nearby Starharts, and they take the hint for once… and join the other dogs in yanking you forward. You wind up half-stumbling, half-running forward to avoid losing your balance entirely. Fortunately, people are quickly moving out of your way. Unfortunately, when you hit the end of the block, instead of running out into traffic or stopping, the dogs careen wildly to the left, yanking you directly into a someone walking the opposite direction. 

[](http://elvensemi.tumblr.com/post/140755199464/the-art-from-yes-ser-chapter-4-by-the-fabulous)

All you see is knit and tweed as you slam into the poor, unfortunate soul. And the dogs _keep fucking pulling_ so you wind up on your side being dragged along the concrete past, in retrospect, a pair of very nice shoes. Before you can be dragged too far, however, one of those very nice shoes slams down onto the leashes--alarmingly close to your hand, but still a few inches away from stomping on you. Then hands come down to join them and the tension on your wrist lessens. 

You shake your head to clear it, as a voice that sounds like it’s very far away says, “Are you alright, miss?” You must have a concussion because you swear, he sounds just like-- 

**Your boss.**

You _spring_ upwards in horror, wincing as lot of new scrapes complain about the sudden movement. You hadn’t recognized him at first. Mr. Solas is wearing glasses, for one, which you’ve never seen him do at work. He’s also not dressed in one of his normal designer suits, but some sort of tweed vest over pressed, collared shirt and tie. If it wasn't so all tailored looking, you'd wonder if he shopped at thrift stores, too. But there’s no mistaking that chrome dome. Or that jawline, if you’re being perfectly candid. 

But right now you’re just terrified because you ran into your boss, outside of work, doing another job (how much of that are you allowed to do again?), and also _literally ran into him_ , plus you’re wearing like the least professional get up in the world… Fuck. You quickly take a firmer grip on the leashes. 

“Oh, uh, thanks, I, um…” you stammer, looking anywhere but at his face. “I’m so sorry, I--” 

“It’s fine,” he replies, and you blink in confusion. “Just be more careful. And maybe walk fewer dogs next time,” he adds with a light chuckle. And then he’s walking down the sidewalk, leaving you to stare, dumbfounded, as the dogs swarm aimlessly around your legs. 

… 

_That asshole didn’t even fucking recognize you._

You glare daggers into his retreating back. You can’t believe him! You’ve worked with him every day for two weeks! You’re his fucking secretary! Yeah, sure, you look different on your days off, but… Still… You set back off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction as Mr. Solas headed, sulking the entire way. You should be relieved; you could get in trouble for having a second job (and third, and fourth, and--). But… c’mon… what kind of guy doesn’t recognize his own secretary? 

You sulk and kick the ground the whole way back to the dogs’ house. At least you’re done with these wretched little beasts for today. You have to take care of them again tomorrow, but then you’re done, with money in your pocket. For right now, you have to head home and get changed… you have a job interview. 

\--

You got the job. 

You have mixed feelings about it, honestly. It’s an easy enough job… just check out clerk Tuesdays and Thursdays, 6:30 to 11:30. It’s only an extra ten hours a week, and it’s only going to be an extra three sovereigns a month, all told. You would prefer to use those hours for sleeping. But those three sovereigns can go straight to medical bills. With this, in a few more months of hard work, you should be able to afford actual _treatment_ instead of just basic care. 

You can do this. 

It’s a late night job, which you don’t normally like taking, but it’s actually in a 24 hour mart on a corner in a pretty good neighborhood. You’re surprised you got the job, honestly… the owner was a human and you hadn’t been sure he’d be willing to hire an elf. A lot of times, they won’t, when it’s a fancier area like that, because the humans get uncomfortable seeing an elf and stop going there. It’s just a corner store, though, so you guess it doesn’t really matter. Or you were the only one who applied, since they needed someone who could start Tuesday. Either way. 

Ten hours a week is technically within the limits of what you’re allowed to have as a part time job, too, so if your job finds out about you taking on a new job--which they very well might--it shouldn’t be an issue. You’re pretty confident you’ve covered all of your bases… Except for the fact that you’re now down to about 28 hours of sleep a week, but hey, death comes for all of us sooner or later. 

You manage not to literally collide with your boss on Sunday, despite walking all six dogs again. What was he even doing out walking along the sidewalk like a normal person, anyway? It was a pretty nice area of Val Royeaux. Maybe he lived nearby? But you’d think he would have a really fancy car with a man paid just to drive him around or something stupid like that. 

When you mention this to Thea when the two of you meet for lunch on Sunday, she shakes her head. 

“Nah, he fired the chauffeur when he took the job,” she informs you. “He _does_ have a really fancy car though. Why?” 

“He fired the chauffeur?” you ask with a scoff. “What did the poor man do? Fail to come to a complete stop at a stop sign?” 

“No clue. You could ask him yourself if you’re actually curious, though. He still works for the company.” 

You blink. “What, people who get fired by Mr. Solas don’t go on some sort of universal do-not-hire list?” 

“Not him, anyway! I only know cause I worked with him on a cross-departmental job one time,” Thea says with a shrug. 

Hmm… Mr. Solas’ old chauffeur. That might actually be worth looking into. He might be able to tell you some things about the man that could help you do the “personal” part of your “personal assistant” job a bit better. You’d kill to talk to one of his old secretaries, but this is better than nothing. “What’s his name?” you ask. 

“Rainier, I think. Thom Rainier. You can look him up in the company directory.” 

\--

You do look up Mr. Rainier’s information on Monday, but don’t have time to do much of anything with it. Mr. Solas actually gives you brief praise in the morning, stating that your minutes were “highly compact, yet legible.” You’re pretty sure that was the nicest thing he’s said to you since you started the job, to be honest. 

Also, you’re not quite sure how to approach this “Thom.” “Hey, I work for the guy who fired you and I’m trying to avoid the same fate, how’d you fuck up?” Not exactly the best opener. And all you have is his work number, so you’ll have to call him during work hours… but you never get so much as a five minute break away from work. You contemplate calling him during lunch, but you wind up working through it again just to keep up. 

You have a near miss that morning, or you think you do, anyway. Mr. Solas takes note of the fact part of your palm is bandaged as you set down some papers on his desk. 

“Did you injure yourself?” he asks, gesturing towards your hand. You snatch it away as if you’d been bitten--that scrape was from falling and being dragged by the dogs. 

“Ah, yes, just a… fall,” you say awkwardly, trying not to look panicked. It isn’t as if that’s somehow going to be the thing that makes it all click in his mind. If he didn’t recognize your _freaking face_ , he’s just not going to put it together. But still, you can feel your pace pick up. 

“You should be more careful,” is all he says, after a moment’s appraisal. “Your hands are important for this job.” 

Thank the Maker he’s an asshole focused purely on work. 

It’s while you’re working through lunch that you remember what Mr. Solas said about you filing your overtime. Should you be filing the fact you’ve worked through lunch every single day? You’re scheduled a half hour break. That’s five hours over your two week pay period… But, no, you’ll probably just get reprimanded, and you _need_ this time to keep up, at least until you get more into the swing of things. 

You get your few hours precious sleep at the bakery before your overnight shift there. With this new job, you suspect your apartment will be more of a place for you to keep your things than any kind of actual home. You’re pretty sure you do most of your sleeping on the bench in the locker room of Andaran A’Tea’Shan at this point. 

Rather than sleeping in on Tuesday morning, however, you wake up a bit early and head into work a solid half hour early. You place Solas’ breakfast on his desk, flick on the tiny heater for his coffee, and hope it doesn’t taste stale when he gets in. You doubt you’ll hear about it if it does, but you also have no doubt he has a running mental tally of everything you’ve ever fucked up. Yesterday, he looked at you during a meeting, and you could actually _feel_ the judgment. Like a racehorse being sized up. At least he hadn’t pried your mouth open to look at your teeth yet. 

Instead of clocking in, however, you track down one Mr. Thom Rainier. 

You’re still not one hundred percent clear on how this conversation is going to go down, or even what you want out of him, but any information he can give you would probably be valuable. So you gird your loins, so to speak, and go for it. 

He’s located in the research wing, which is interesting. You hope he’s not in a lab somewhere, poking at things with other things. But you’d rather canvas the area before just up and calling him. You will, if you need to, but you’re even less certain about how to have _that_ conversation. ‘Pardon me, would you mind meeting with me to gossip about your old boss? Can I pencil you in for a 3pm tea and tattle?’ Yeah. No. 

You’re not actually allowed into any of the labs, mind… You don’t have clearance, and you wouldn’t feel comfortable just wandering in, regardless. Instead, you head to the offices and look at the directory on the wall. Rainier. 1-F. 

The layout of this area is interesting to you. It’s not an open floor with lines of desks, like where you’d worked previously. It’s much less chaotic, despite the fact there’s already a good number of people in a sort of lounge area in the center, debating rather animatedly about the contents of a dry erase board. “Poisons the animals too, that’s the problem.” “Yes, but there’s no reason to believe that it can spread cross-species past the initial--” You can’t really understand most of what they’re saying, but it sure sounds research-y. Too bad your degree is in _linguistics._ You scan the rest of the area, looking for 1-F. 

Ringing the exterior is a series of offices, somewhere between cubicle and private office. There doesn't appear to be actual doors, but there are real walls, so that’s a step up. They’re more spacious than cubicles, too, from what you see. You wander through the area with the professional gait of someone who _totally_ belongs there and isn’t just lost and wandering, your heels clicking authoritatively on the linoleum--one of several reasons you wear them. A good set of heels and you’re as tall as some human men, which always makes them uncomfortable. You often wonder if Solas wears heeled shoes as well; he’s remarkably tall for an elf, even moreso than you. Ah. 1-F. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Rainier?” you ask, tapping on the side of the doorway. A human man with a rather dramatic beard, black laced with bits of silver, looks up from the desk. A pair of reading glasses rest on his nose, but he still looks a bit more like a lumberjack than a scientist. 

“Yes, can I help you?” His voice is deep and low, but his accent isn’t Orlesian. Marcher? 

“Possibly. My name is Emma, and I’m Mr. Solas’ newest secretary.” 

He pauses, then sets down his pen and pulls of his reading glasses. Then he looks at you again, a bit more appraisingly. “Alright. What can I do for you, Miss Emma?” he says, gesturing towards the other chair in the office. 

“A friend of mine told me that you used to work as Mr. Solas’ chauffeur,” you begin as you pull the chair in front of his desk, and then sit down, tucking your skirt underneath you. 

“You’re not the first of his secretaries to look me up, you know,” he says mildly. 

“I’m not surprised,” you say dryly. “At this point, it’s a numbers game. I’ll be blunt, Mr. Rainier. I know all of my predecessors have failed to do the job and been dismissed. I’m trying to avoid that.” 

“So you looked up his old chauffeur? Looking for gossip?” 

“I’m looking for anything that will help me do my job as secretary and personal assistant more efficiently,” you say smoothly. “My friend seemed under the impression you’d been fired, after all, and I can’t exactly hunt down one of the old secretaries and ask them how _they_ screwed it up.” 

Rainier laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. He sounds like someone’s jolly grandfather. “You want to know what I did to get _fired_?” 

“I want to know anything you’re willing to tell me,” you admit. “I’ve been at this for about two and a half weeks now. The notes of the previous secretaries are frantic and contradictory. Mr. Solas demands excellence, and I want every advantage I can get in order to deliver. I need this job, Mr. Rainier, and therefore I need to do it _well._ ” 

“And I clearly failed at that,” he says, still amused. 

“Not so badly that you don’t still work for the company,” you point out. “How does a chauffeur land a job in research?” 

“By having the credentials. Tell me, do you remember the Denerim outbreak?” he says, mood suddenly a bit more grim. 

Remember it? You were goddamn _there._ But he doesn’t need to know that. “Of course. The elven population was hit the hardest, and they’ve still yet to recover,” you say with a scowl. “Why?” 

“The spill was in Ostagar.” 

“Yes, but contaminates made their way to Denerim,” you interrupt, a bit frustrated at this sudden change of subject. “One of WARD’s more dramatic fuck-ups, to date.” 

“One of their lead researchers assured them that the pollution hadn’t spread into Lothering. That their crops were fine. Those crops were sold in Denerim--” 

“To the poorest, hence the reason why the outbreak was condensed mostly to the Elven population,” you interrupt again. “What on earth does this have to do with--” 

“I was that researcher.” 

“...Oh.” 

You stare at the man in a new light, not as somebody’s lumberjack-esque father, but as a man with gallons of elven blood on his hands. Including some you knew personally. 

Fuck getting information. 

“If there was any justice in this world, you would never hold another scientific job for the rest of your life,” you say coldly. “I _know_ people who died there, I knew _children_ \--” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, staring down at his desk. A hitch in voice makes you pause. It was twenty years ago. He’s probably lived most of his life with that weight. As much as you’d like to haul across the desk and throttle him… It wouldn’t change what happened. “I moved to Orlais to escape the media. I was… homeless, for a while,” he admitted. “I was lucky when Mr. Trevelyan gave me a job as his chauffeur.” 

“Mr. Solas didn’t fire you,” you say with a sigh. 

“He did,” Rainier corrects. “Technically. It’s just that then I was hired into the company as a contract researcher.” 

You’re not surprised. A man who denies coffee for being too fucking elfy, what would he care about the memory of a thousand dead elves? Of course he’d give a research job to-- 

“Please, don’t leave here thinking worse of Solas,” Rainier interrupts, as if he can read your mind. He can probably read your expression, which is more than a little disgusted. “That’s not why I told you this. He moved me into a research position because… I can do some good. I didn’t believe it myself. Thought my mark on the world would be dead children.” His voice cracks on the last two words, then he clears his throat. “Mr. Solas convinced me otherwise. We’re doing good work here. And my experience is helping. WARD doesn’t like when their scientists move into the private sector. My knowledge is valuable here.” 

“I don’t care about your hunt for redemption, Mr. Rainier,” you say bluntly. 

“I know. But you care about Mr. Solas and what he wants,” he counters. “And I’m telling you. He has a bad reputation in the company, I know. A perfectionist, absolutely anal about every little thing--” 

You can’t help snorting. That’s him alright. 

“But he’s good at his job. And what he wants is people who are good at theirs.” 

“Yes, but ‘being good at my job’ is not advice I can act on,” you say with a scowl. “If you’re trying to help, give me something I can go off of.” 

“You’re the first secretary Mr. Solas has plucked out of the company, to my knowledge. He does that, moves people around from place to place within INQCO. He did it to me, because he thought I could do more good in this position than driving him around. If he did that, it’s because he thinks you’re good for the job.” 

“He knows nothing about me,” you say exasperatedly. “We had a single conversation, and it involved me telling him to fix his shit.” 

That gives Rainier pause. “What, literally? With those words?” 

“Yeah,” you admit, flushing slightly. “I didn’t realize it was him.” 

“Well, your work must have impressed him, if he…” Ranier pauses again. “So, did you call _him_ a shit, or…” 

“No! I… I called his work shit, and told him to fix it,” you say, flushing deeper. “Can we not… look, that doesn’t matter--” 

“Right, right. My point is, your work or even your, uh, demeanor, must have impressed him. Play to your strengths.” 

“That’s still not practical advice,” you point out. 

“What do you want me to say? That he hates Antivan cabbage?” Rainier says, exasperated. 

“Does he?” you ask, pulling out the Guide to scribble it down. 

“I… W… Are you serious?” 

“Yes or no, Mr. Rainier.” 

“Well, yes, but I don’t see how that’s at all useful.” 

“I arrange meals he takes while at work. Therefore, his personal tastes are part of my job,” you explain blandly. “Hence personal assistant. Can you tell me anything else?” 

Rainier stares at you for a minute, then begins to laugh. The corner of your mouth twitches. This is a man who got annoyed over coffee. Anything you can do to put him in a good mood could help. “I think I’m starting to see why he hired you.” 

“I’m glad one of us is,” you grumble. 

“Alright, alright. Practical advice. Well, he’s really grumpy in the mornings. Doesn’t mean he’s mad, he just hates being up. He takes his coffee decaf because--” 

You begin frantically scribbling down everything Rainier can remember off the top of his head. Who knows when it might be useful. You learn that he’s allergic to certain kinds of dogs, which puts your encounter on the sidewalk in a slightly alarming new light, and that he has a sweet tooth, which, frankly, you’d already guessed from the abomination he drinks every morning. 

All in all, it’s a productive encounter. You’ve certainly learned more about the kind of man Mr. Solas is… in many more ways than just his taste in vegetables and coffee.


End file.
